The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

“Here, let me help you up.”

Quentin noticed Kit’s relieved expression as Hamish heaved him to his feet. They were attracting a crowd. Emily bustled over with Andy in tow, while William and Laing scrambled down the hill toward them. When William stumbled with tiredness as they approached, Laing picked him up and gave him a few encouraging words.

“Are ye in one piece, nephew?” Laing asked, once he was within earshot.

?

?Never better, Uncle,” Kit said.

“What a bouncer,” Quentin protested. “You must be black and blue after that tumble.”

The look that the boy shot him conveyed dislike – before the obedient servant expression descended again. “No real harm was done, sir,” Kit said in a wooden tone.

“Nonetheless, it was a nasty wee spill,” Laing said to his nephew. “Ye can sit up with me when we go back to the house.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Kit said and turned to collect the sled from where it had landed upside down in the snow.

Quentin rushed to take it from the stable lad. “Go and sit on the cart. Nobody expects you to help pack up.” He hadn’t missed the way movement had made Kit hide a wince. “I think we should get the doctor in.”

Huge eyes fastened on him with horror. “No!”

Kit’s hands clenched on the sled. Just before fighting over the sled turned into a wrestle, the lad surrendered. He dropped his head and mumbled, “Thank ye for your concern, Mr. MacNab. I’m just a wee bit knocked about. My uncle has some liniment that will have me right as rain tomorrow.”

“Liniment for horses,” Quentin said, knowing that Kit wished him to Hades for his fussing.

Yet again, the lad didn’t meet his eyes. “We are all creatures under God’s eyes, I believe, sir.”

As Quentin burst into laughter, Kit turned away and moved with surprising speed toward the cart.

***

After supper in the servants’ hall, a meal enlivened by excitement about the looming Christmas celebrations, Kit slipped away from the cozy big house to the scarcely less cozy stables. At Glen Lyon, the horses lived in luxury. But then the estate was a good example of just how to manage a property. All the crofters’ cottages were in good repair, fencing and equipment were in fine fettle, nobody complained under Hamish and Emily Douglas’s authority. At the last place Kit had been, things hadn’t been nearly so well-run.

Aching from the aftereffects of his accident, he climbed the stairs to the room he’d been given near the head groom’s apartment. Because of his privileged position as Laing’s nephew, he didn’t have to share his quarters with anyone else.

Kit entered the room and bolted the door behind him. With a weary sigh, he sank against the door. He was sore and bruised, and his adventures with the runaway sled had roused far too much interest at dinner. Not to mention that Quentin MacNab’s kindness after the spill had left him thoroughly unsettled.

Quentin MacNab, handsome as the devil, with his thick, tawny hair and sharp hazel eyes that never missed a trick. Since Hamish’s nephew had evinced an interest in the new stableboy, Kit had done his best to stay out of the way. But today’s exploits had placed him firmly in Mr. MacNab’s sights, plague take it.

With another sigh, Kit straightened and stepped into the middle of the floor to undress. First to come off was the thick coat, followed by the woolen jerkin and the linen shirt. Then, very carefully, he unwound the binding that constricted his chest, swearing under his breath as he noted the purple marks blossoming over his white skin.

And just like that, Kit Laing became Christabel Urquhart.

Chapter 2

Along with most of the Glen Lyon household, Kit set out on the next afternoon’s expedition to gather greenery to decorate the house for the festive season. As they did most years, the laird and his lady were hosting a big house party for Christmas, and the guests were due to start arriving on Christmas Eve for a gala ball.

Kit had heard so many tales below stairs of an event brimming with glamour and fun. Because Emily was English and Hamish had spent most of his childhood in London, Christmas at Glen Lyon was a joyous mixture of traditions, unlike anything Kit had ever experienced before. The guests stayed over until Boxing Day, then there was a huge ceilidh that night for the servants and the crofters, where jigs and reels were more likely to feature than fashionable waltzes and quadrilles.

Kit looked forward to being part of that. The servants at Glen Lyon were a contented lot and had given her a warm welcome when she arrived a month ago, ostensibly as Joseph Laing’s nephew. There had been some mild grumbling from the other junior grooms, when she received the privilege of a room to herself, but Laing had jumped on that straightaway and scotched the trouble at the source.

That private room had helped her to maintain her disguise, and she’d done her best to avoid too much notice while she worked. Until yesterday, when an overturned sled had nearly brought her to grief.

After those dramas, she intended to keep her head down during this visit to the woods that grew up behind the house and spread over into the next glen. She’d already noticed Mr. MacNab looking at her in a way that made her fear he might have guessed that she wasn’t what she appeared.

Kit blushed to recall his gentle, efficient hands on her when he’d dug her out of the snowdrift. He’d never touched her before and when he did, it had been difficult to remember that she was a stableboy and not a young lady. Not to mention a young lady who had noted from the first how handsome the MacNab heir was.

Hamish Douglas, the laird, was also handsome, but somehow he was a little too much the king of the beasts to make Kit’s heart beat faster. Which was a good thing when Hamish was besotted with his wife.